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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23049607">parry, riposte</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/plutoandpersephone/pseuds/plutoandpersephone'>plutoandpersephone</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blow Jobs, Competence Kink, Established Relationship, M/M, Power Dynamics, no tops no bottoms we suck dick like men</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-03-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 05:54:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,930</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23049607</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/plutoandpersephone/pseuds/plutoandpersephone</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>"How about it?"</p><p>Geralt looks at Jaskier like he’s just started to speak in some long lost, foreign tongue. </p><p>"You want to take me on in the sword ring?"</p><p>-</p><p>Jaskier challenges Geralt to a bout in the fencing ring. They both get more than they bargained for.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia &amp; Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>54</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>963</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>parry, riposte</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>please check out <a href="https://twitter.com/chococo_mao/status/1236379339748298752">the artwork</a> that the amazing mao did as part of this collab!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The path less travelled yields many surprises, Jaskier knows this. He’s become used to it now, not knowing where one might awaken come the next sun-up, or where you might dine, or who your companion might be. And travelling with Geralt, on that broken, winding road through the backwaters, things become stranger still. Jaskier hears all manner of tales and he builds them beautiful, makes them into art. </p><p>Of course Geralt himself has been the brightest surprise of all - powerful and bold and gentle, a lion’s heart in wolf’s casing. Jaskier’s favourite months quickly become the ones where he meets with Geralt, when fate lets their paths cross over one another. And gods, if you’d told him that in his youth he’d be the eager occupant of a witcher’s bed, he wouldn’t have believed you for even the briefest moment. </p><p>Sometimes fate’s hand deals dark surprises - Jaskier remembers shadows on a dark road, unsheathed fangs. Other times the cards that it throws are sweeter, more innocuous, nothing more than strange little twists that reap unexpected rewards.</p><p>Jaskier and Geralt have been travelling together for less than a week, Geralt’s expert senses the only map they need to lead them through the wilderness. They have made plans to stop in a town for a night or two, to gather some supplies, let Jaskier try out a few of his new ballads and give Roach somewhere to sleep besides beneath the splayed fingers of old oaks.</p><p>They take a main thoroughfare, dusty and well-worn, with narrower paths flowing into it like tributaries of a river. Their destination lays somewhere over the horizon, a town in the cracked crater bowl of an old lake, sprawling low in all directions. As they walk, Jaskier asks Geralt about it. </p><p>Nearing the walls of the town, they are joined by many more people than the infrequent beggar or errant knight of the kind that they usually see on their travels. Geralt regards each new passerby with suspicion, the wariness tightening his shoulders until it rolls off him in thick, palpable waves. He grows quiet, then quieter, then silent. Jaskier listens to the sound of his own voice and wishes that he could rub some of the tension out of Geralt’s neck and jaw. A trader with a covered cart rumbles onto the road in front and Geralt watches as if she were a fury pulled from hell to walk alongside them. </p><p>Jaskier understands that Geralt doesn’t like people - it comes with the territory, really, of being a hawk-eyed outcast - but this seems a touch dramatic. The added company on the road is harmless, with hardly a second glance for the pair of them, and as they enter the gates of the town, it becomes clear exactly what they have stumbled upon. </p><p>The narrow streets have been made even narrower by roughly fabricated stalls, pallets and old boxes stacked up together to create a flat surface from which people can sell silks and spices and twisted pieces of old metal that surely no one in their right mind would have any use for. A sweet, smoky smell pervades the air - cooking meat, lavender oil, the press and heave of many more people and horses than the town is accustomed to. Somewhere in the distance, Jaskier can hear a band playing, and closer by, someone tuning a harp, all it’s many strings moving together like bubbling water. They have to walk in single file in order to pass through the crowd, Jaskier in front, Roach in the middle and Geralt at the back. Jaskier turns back every now and then - okay, it’s every ten seconds - to check that they haven’t been separated by some wandering gaggle making their way across the path. Geralt looks a little perturbed, but in that incredibly stoic, put together kind of way that is equally envious and impressive.</p><p>Jaskier, on the other hand, finds the hustle and bustle exciting. There’s so much to look at, so many people pressing into them, all going about their business, all with their own stories to tell. It seems very thick and fast after the slow silence of the beaten track. He’d swing his lute up onto his chest and compose an ode to the rapidly beating heart of this place, were he not worried that all his words would get lost in the chatter. Perhaps later.</p><p>Once they pass through the initial commotion at the town’s gates, their way opens up into a wide square, set around the edge with vendors, many of their wares hanging down from fabric covered awnings.</p><p>“What is going on?” Geralt asks, as they come to a halt beside a stall selling saddles and oiled riding crops. There’s a roped area behind where a few horses are nose deep in thick bales of hay, and Jaskier gives a pale, eager-looking lad a coin to tie Roach up alongside them for the night. </p><p>“It’s a fair, Geralt,” Jaskier replies, frowning at the question. “I would have thought that much was obvious. Do they not have them in Kaer Morhen?”</p><p>“Don’t be stupid. I know what a fair looks like,” Geralt says, his voice so flat and gaze so fixed that Jaskier wonders whether he’s happened upon one of his sensitive spots. “Why is it here?”</p><p>“Oh!” Jaskier feels ridiculous. Of course Geralt - ancient and far more world weary than he - knows what a fair looks like. <i>Don’t be stupid.</i> “Well, I suppose it wouldn’t be hard to find out.”</p><p>They venture further into the square, finding a tavern with long tables set out in the dying afternoon light. Tankards of ale appear before them without them even asking, and as predicted, it doesn’t take long for Jaskier to find the answer to Geralt’s questions - a windfall victory for one of the town’s allies in some far flung war, an impromptu celebration got slightly out of hand. It all sounds very civilised to Jaskier. Geralt just grumbles into his ale. </p><p>Along one side of the square, a row of stalls are selling weapons and armour, the metal and wood shining like jewels, a dragon’s horde. There are a few practice rings arranged in front of the vendors, and people of all abilities and ages are swinging dulled or wooden blades in the air, whether as organised sport or frivolous entertainment is almost impossible to say.</p><p>Most of the weaponry is utterly unrecognisable to Jaskier, shortswords like Geralt’s but with intimidatingly serrated edges, maces that look as if they could take a man’s head off with one blow. </p><p>There’s one stall, though, tucked right away in the corner, which Jaskier is more than familiar with. Racks of narrow blades glint in the sunlight, a thin, golden band that creeps in over the nearest roof. </p><p>“So, Geralt. How would you like to try it?” Jaskier jerks his head towards the roped-off rings, where a few onlookers are watching as two young men try to hit each other in the shins with short, rounded clubs. </p><p>Geralt’s yellow eyes flick over. “You want to hit me with a stick?” </p><p>“Well, not right now,” Jaskier replies, and Geralt gives a short, brief laugh, which means he finds the response hilarious. “No. The sword ring. How about it?”</p><p>Geralt looks at Jaskier like he’s just started to speak in some long lost, foreign tongue. </p><p>“You want to take me on in the sword ring?” Geralt asks, and when Jaskier nods, his mouth twists in an incredulous grin. “Did the bartend slip some madness potion into your ale?”</p><p>“Look, Geralt,” Jaskier leans forward over the table, as if he’s about to spill some deep secret. “I’ve seen you fight. It's poetry, really, it's its own kind of song - rather more brutal than the melodies I weave, but all the same. Perhaps you could teach me a thing or two.”</p><p>“You know I’d have you on your knees with my blade between your shoulders in seconds, don’t you?” The image flickers before Jaskier’s eyes, tempting and fiery. He can almost feel the press of Geralt’s sword at the nape of his neck.</p><p>“Well, as much as I would <i>hate</i> for that to happen,” Jaskier says, the inflection in his words making it clear that at another juncture, he would very much enjoy said outcome, “I’m sure we could work something out. If you were to allow me to choose the weapon, say?”</p><p>Geralt’s eyes narrow. He’s near impossible to blindside, what with that impeccable and unfaltering vision, and Jaskier is certain that he’s not going to get away with it. Much to his surprise however, Geralt shrugs, downing the rest of his tankard.</p><p>“Fine.”</p><p>Jaskier expects that this is not the kind of frivolity that the witcher has ever entered into, and he can’t help but feel flattered. Gone are the days of wondering if Geralt considers him a friend - they’ve mapped the crests and valleys of each other’s bodies enough times to dispel those doubts - but this seems like new, uncharted territory. Jaskier gets to his feet, his stomach tight with nerves. </p><p>They cross over to the stall in the far corner, and to the table laid with the narrow blades: fencing foils. And here falls Jaskier’s stupid, crazy idea. When he was a younger man, it was seen as both fashionable and useful for those of noble birth to be taught how to spar with a fencing foil. Some of these men would go on to use their skills in battle, replacing the light sword with a long, slashing blade. Others - Jaskier included - would simply hone their fencing skills until they could take on opponents in their own narrow arena, with no hope of taking any of their abilities to war. </p><p>With the permission of the vendor, a sallow man who looks between the pair of them with a sceptical look, they take two of the blades from the table and into the empty ring. A circle of thick rope lies in the mud, acting as a barrier between them and the small crowd of people who are milling around, looking on in half-interest.</p><p>“It’s lighter than a feather,” Geralt complains, weighing the foil in his right hand. “I could snap it in two.”</p><p>“And I’m sure you’d make yourself very unpopular if you did that,” Jaskier says. The foil feels good in his hand, familiar, like putting on your winter furs in anticipation of the first snowfall. His feet fall naturally into his fighting stance.</p><p>“Will you follow my rules?” Jaskier asks. The blade looks comically small in Geralt’s hand, nothing like the heavy weapons that he carries like a powerful, natural extension of his arm.</p><p>Geralt doesn’t look impressed by the question. </p><p>“I don’t fight with rules,” he mutters. His body is already turned, instinct driven, into a mirror of Jaskier’s own position. Perhaps this was a ridiculous idea after all. Perhaps he’s going to end up face down in the mud with Geralt’s boot on his neck, humiliated and- He shakes himself free of the thought. Refocus. </p><p>“Humour me then.” Jaskier proffers his blade, and Geralt raises his in return, angled upwards in grudging agreement. Warmth floods the cavern of his chest. </p><p>“First, we touch the tips,” Jaskier says. Geralt raises his eyebrows. </p><p>“Mind out of the gutter please, Geralt.” </p><p>Geralt gives a small smirk, and Jaskier tries not to picture the thoughts that are going through the witcher’s mind. There’s the scrape and click of metal meeting metal. </p><p>“And then - on your guard.” </p><p>Jaskier takes a step back, right arm extended and left hand raised beside his head, curled into a loose fist. He follows with a brief explanation of the rules, sketching his way through an approximation of the moves that might be performed to score a point. </p><p>Defend, attack. <i>Parry, riposte.</i></p><p>Everything is a tenth of the speed of a real bout. He doesn’t tell Geralt that. He’ll work it out soon enough.</p><p>“Priority attacks,” Jaskier explains. “Pressing forward, thrusting to score the point-”</p><p>“I’ll attack,” Geralt says, before Jaskier has any chance to outline any further. The look that he gives Jaskier burns right through to his core, wrapping hot, tight fingers around his heart. He has to clench his teeth tight to stop the frankly embarrassing sound that coils in the back of his throat. </p><p>Someone on the square has lit a line of lamps and they glow, low and red, across the ring. Geralt looks exquisite in the light - white hair pulled back and face thrown into a shadowy relief, a benign deity, humouring his bard’s strange whims. He’s left his armour to the side of the ring and the medallion at his chest shimmers like a treasure in the bottom of a murky pool. Jaskier wonders if he could just sack off this foolish, headstrong attempt at foreplay and just pull Geralt back to their rooms without engaging in this fight at all.</p><p>No. He’s come this far. Who knows? Sometimes his harebrained schemes reap their own peculiar rewards. </p><p>
  <i>En garde.</i>
</p><p>Geralt follows his lead, his body pulled as tight and masterful as if he’s been carrying a foil in his arsenal for years. There’s a shining moment between them, as if time has been allowed to stand still, frozen, set in the amber light of the square.</p><p>And then Geralt lunges. He puts all the force in those powerful shoulders behind the narrow foil, as if he hopes that the light, supple sword might spear right through Jaskier’s sternum and meet the place where his heart beats. Jaskier curls his body away from him, quick and sharp, twisting his arms up so the tip of the blade just misses the small of his back. </p><p>They slide back to their original positions. </p><p>“You’re fast,” Geralt comments, and he speaks with some impressed air, head tilted to the side. </p><p>“Why, thank you,” Jaskier grins, giving a little bow. Behind the show of his confidence, his hands are already shaking, his body flush with adrenaline at his first, lucky escape - an animal shaken free of an imminent trap. Surely it won’t happen again. Soon enough, Geralt is going to strike him hard enough to bruise. “Reset.”</p><p>They try a few more times, and with each reset, with each new attack, Jaskier manages to slip out of Geralt’s grasp. The first escape was not a fluke - as proved by the second, and the fifth. It turns out that not even the witcher is immune to the weight of new steel in his hand, the flimsy foil that whispers along like it might become part of the air itself. It throws off his usually perfect balance, slows his inhuman speed down to something a touch more earthly.</p><p>He’s frustrated, Jaskier can see that, and pride blisters at the thought. Although there are technically no points scored on either side, Jaskier can’t help but feel as if he might be the one with the upper hand. For once, for once in their weaving and winding relationship.</p><p>But this is going to get boring after a while: the attack, the dodge, the reset. Jaskier decides that the cards need to be dealt anew, that caution must be thrown to the winds. The next time they take up their guards - Geralt’s yellow eyes absolutely unfaltering on the lines of Jaskier’s body - a strategy has begun to flicker in the corners of his mind.</p><p>Geralt thrusts forward, and this time, with a swift crack of his upper arm, he allows his blade to meet Geralt’s. Parry. A moment of static, the metal threatening to spark. Jaskier has knocked Geralt’s foil slightly out of line, and even if he were to make a movement forward now, the point of the blade wouldn’t connect with anything.</p><p>Their eyes meet. Jaskier grins. </p><p>What would Geralt normally do now? Perhaps bring his blade back around in the other direction, in a firm, double handed grip, ready to slice into Jaskier’s sword bearing arm. Not an option here. </p><p>In the end, he’s not really sure how it happens. It starts with Geralt shifting forward on one foot, a threat, charged with intent. Jaskier flicks his wrist, quick and certain, locking their foils so that Geralt can’t press on any further. He’s certain he doesn’t imagine the growl that sounds in the back of Geralt’s throat.</p><p>Jaskier forces him back - that controlled vertical lunge and shift forward that Geralt is so unused to. The witcher knows how to feel the fight, he knows how to use all his heightened senses to bend the rules to his will, to conquer time and time again. Here, though, his rules are boxed, all the rough edges have been sawn off to leave the neat, distilled arena in which they find themselves. Jaskier is certain that if they continued to practise in this ring that Geralt would best him every time, throwing move after uncounterable move until their bouts became entirely defunct. </p><p>But they probably won’t do this again. And gods, if Jaskier isn’t going to monopolise upon that.</p><p>He takes Geralt back and back, further out towards the edge of the ring. His heart is singing in his ears, the wild rush of his bloodstream thrumming, drawing in deep breaths at an attempt to keep Geralt at bay. His wild witcher, with that wolf’s glare.</p><p>The universe takes its most strange and miraculous turn yet. Geralt’s heel meets the edge of the ring, the wide rope half-covered by mud - and the sudden obstruction throws him off balance. </p><p>He doesn’t fall, not at first. Certainly not the sort to trip over his own feet or to be undone by a single misstep, his shoulder simply drops a few inches, his foil sliding along Jaskier’s own with a sound like the scraping of embers. In this shift, though, his body twists slightly to one side, his centre of balance knocked off just enough. Just enough for Jaskier to make his final move.</p><p>He lunges. His blade connects with Geralt’s shoulder, the tip pressing into the soft part where his collarbone meets the hard swell of his shoulder muscle. Geralt stumbles, takes a hasty step back, and his knee connects with the ground.</p><p>There’s a long moment, hung in the air like silk thread, spun fine and narrow and magical, where they simply regard each other. Geralt’s foil is still raised to defend his face - ever the consummate opponent, not one to go down without expending the last ounce of his fight - and his arm has shot out behind him, his fist buried in the mud.</p><p>Geralt of Rivia, the fabled, fearsome witcher, is knelt on the ground at Jaskier’s feet. </p><p>“Oh.” </p><p>It’s the only sound that falls from Jaskier’s lips. </p><p>Although he’d hardly dared to think it, he’d imagined in this situation that perhaps he’d whoop and holler, arms raised in disbelieving celebration, his foil whipping up through the warmed evening air. Then, straight to the nearest tavern to tell the story of how he, Jaskier, the humble yet noble bard, managed to best a witcher in hand to hand combat - how brave and polished the fight was.</p><p>In the end, he doesn’t do any of these things. He holds out his left hand. Geralt doesn’t take it.</p><p>“Let’s go, Jaskier,” Geralt mutters, pushing himself up off the ground. His fingers leave a long stripe of dirt against the dark material of his trousers.</p><p>They return their foils to the vendor, who is staring between the pair of them as if he can’t quite understand what has just taken place in the little patch of roped off mud in front of his stall. Jaskier thanks him for the loan - <i>very fine foils, thank you, just not sure we’ve got the coin for them today</i> - and Geralt silently retrieves and replaces his armour. He tightens the fastenings as if he’s readying himself for combat. </p><p>With the sky above them turned a heavy navy, and marked with the first white pinpricks of stars, they set about finding somewhere to eat and sleep. Nightfall has changed the noise of the city. Gone are the rumble of carts and the sounds of people touting their wares, replaced by the clinking of tankards, the scraping of chairs, raucous shouts of revelry. </p><p>It’s usual for Geralt to keep quiet in a place like this. He prefers to watch, to listen, to hear Jaskier’s recounts of the scandals and rumours abound in whatever new establishment they find themselves in. But it feels different this evening. Jaskier doesn’t want to embroil himself in the crowds, he doesn’t want to swing his lute up onto his chest and regale them with his songs of monsters and maidens, of the white wolf. He stays close to Geralt, offers little more than a throwaway comment here or there. He can feel Geralt’s eyes on him the whole time. </p><p>After a few failed attempts, they find an inn with an empty table and - with one glance at the witcher and two gold coins pressed hastily into a palm - promises of a room halfway across town. It’s good enough, there’s ale and roasted meat and a quiet corner where they can sit together, knee to knee.  </p><p>To an outsider, Geralt might look angry, brooding, positively sullen after his defeat in the ring. There would certainly have been a day when Jaskier would have taken Geralt’s silence as an insult, and would have pressed and needled him until the witcher’s composure cracked. <i>Shut up, Jaskier, just shut up.</i></p><p>But Jaskier knows him well enough now; the years have taught him something. He recalls those golden eyes watching him in the ring, taking in every curve and line of his body, mirroring his stance with absolute perfection. That broad hand holding the delicate foil, knuckles white. As he clears his plate and empties his cup, he thinks of that low growl in Geralt’s throat, positively primal, and the way he had stared up at him from between their crossed swords. Eyes alight. Burning.</p><p>As they cross the town, the number of people begins to dwindle. They pass a few groups going in the opposite direction, their pace so purposeful that they barely have a spare glance for the witcher and the bard. Before long, it seems as if they are the only people left, everyone else pressed into the central square for an evening spent drinking and singing.</p><p>“This way,” Geralt says after a while, turning into a narrow, empty alleyway. It’s dark, the fires burning in sconces on the main streets don’t manage to reach their way in here.</p><p>Jaskier follows, although he’s certain there would be a better, less roundabout way to reach their lodgings. Geralt’s hulking form has become little more than a shadow. </p><p>“Geralt!” They press on further into the inky blackness. The sliver of golden light at the end of the passage seems very far away. “Geralt, I’m really not sure if this is the-”</p><p>But Geralt silences him. Geralt has become very good at silencing Jaskier - usually with a firm word or a sideways glance, hard and pointed. This evening, it’s different. In this silent, shadowed side street, he silences him with a kiss.</p><p>He kisses him. He pushes him up against the rough bricks of the houses and kisses him. </p><p>Jaskier’s world suddenly becomes very small. There’s Geralt’s big hand at his waist, gripping warm and heavy through the thin fabric of his shirt, already rucked up beneath the silks of his doublet. There’s the heat and taste of his mouth, that Jaskier knows, that he swears he has memorised - until it sends him reeling time and time again. There’s the press of Geralt’s thick thigh between Jaskier’s legs... and there’s very little else. The kiss might last a minute, an hour, an entire revolution of the earth until he opens his eyes again and finds Geralt staring back at him, two yellow embers in the darkness.</p><p>“Geralt,” Jaskier chokes, his voice high and reedy, his knees turned weak, “Geralt, what are-”</p><p>“Been thinking about that all evening,” Geralt growls, his brow nudging Jaskier’s head back so that his teeth can graze the exposed line of his neck, “since that fucking sword ring.”</p><p>“Oh, have you?” Jaskier had half-expected as much, but it’s nice to hear it confirmed - even nicer to hear it the witcher’s low snarl. He can already feel the hard line of Geralt’s interest pressing against his hip. “Well, I’m not surprised that- ah! Gods, Geralt-”</p><p>Geralt bites down at his throat, and Jaskier forgets the entirety of his vocabulary. </p><p>“I should have pulled you down into the dirt with me,” Geralt mutters, his breath hot at the shell of Jaskier’s ear, “I should have taken you right there.”</p><p>Jaskier moans at the thought - the image of being spread and speared, claimed where anyone could see - and Geralt kisses him again, hard, around any other sounds that fall from his lips. How quickly this has turned from little but spark of their eyes meeting across a quiet table, to the blazing fire of mouths and tongues and Geralt’s rough hand moving to grasp between Jaskier’s legs. He hisses through his teeth, low and sharp.</p><p>“Geralt, not here, if someone sees-” </p><p>Geralt licks a stripe along Jaskier’s collarbone, his hand wrapping tightly around his wrist.</p><p>“Come on.” </p><p>It’s anyone’s guess how Geralt can remember the directions to their rooms - given an hour ago and in a noisy tavern - but those witcher skills must have some unsung rewards, besides the quick healing and monster killing and the ability to make the all the blood in Jaskier’s body run really fucking hot. When they arrive, Jaskier is forced to do his very best impression of a weary traveller, perhaps overzealous on the ale, eager to get to his rooms so that he can rest his head for the night. Geralt doesn’t talk. Jaskier’ feels his presence behind him like an iron wire singing in the wind.</p><p>The rooms are modest: candles burning orange, a small, grubby window that looks out over the street below, two low mattresses barely supported by their bed frames. Jaskier hopes that they will push the beds together before they sleep - but for now, there are more pressing matters to attend to. Standing here with Geralt is like being in the presence of a caged beast. He works on removing his armour, letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor at his feet. Steel and silver meet leather, a dull punch of a sound. </p><p>“When did you learn how to fight like that?” Geralt asks, rolling up the sleeves of his dark undershirt. He sounds slightly breathless, as if he’s run many miles before finding this little room, before putting his hands onto Jaskier’s shoulders again. Geralt takes a step forward, and Jaskier traces the outline of his wolf’s head medallion with one trembling finger. </p><p>“When I was younger,” Jaskier explains. His calves hit the back of one of the bed frames. </p><p>“Go on.”</p><p>“Oh, um-” It’s rare that Geralt wants to hear Jaskier’s tales, let alone with such a passion that his voice is thick and dark with it. “Well, I was born to some kind of nobility and it was rather fashionable to, ah- fuck-”</p><p>“It was fashionable to fuck?” Geralt asks, quirking one eyebrow. His hands are undoing Jaskier’s trousers.  </p><p>“No. I mean, I suppose in some circles but, no, not- look, do you really want to hear this right now?” It rather seems that tales of Jaskier’s youth might be better saved for the morning light, and certainly for when Geralt isn’t palming him through his underclothes. </p><p>“Desperately,” Geralt growls around the word, giving Jaskier a little nudge so that he’s forced to take a seat at the end of the bed. From this angle, he can see just how hard Geralt is, straining against the front of his trousers. The sight makes Jaskier’s mouth water. How easy it would be to unbutton his waistband and pull him out, to taste the heat and salt of that velvet skin on his tongue.  </p><p>Before Jaskier has the opportunity to act upon any of his desires, Geralt does something that shifts the entire room upon its axis. He kneels. He kneels on the floorboards at Jaskier’s feet. His yellow eyes are blown very dark in the candlelight, his broad hands braced on Jaskier’s thighs. </p><p>“So where did you learn? Tell me.” </p><p>As he speaks, he tugs down Jaskier’s underclothes. It could be a scene of mundane storytelling, were it not for the tension burning and singing between them, and Jaskier’s state of half-undress, his cock curving hard towards his stomach. </p><p>Gods, Geralt really wants the story, doesn’t he? Jaskier takes a shaking breath, tries to form a series of words that actually make sense, that fall into some semblance of the truth, even though Geralt is giving him a look that’s intense enough to bruise. </p><p>“Well,” he starts, and his voice shakes, “like I said, it was the fashionable thing. And my tutors wanted me to have practical skills, not just my books and my writing and-”</p><p>He’s just getting into his stride, just finding the right words that will weave the story along an interesting pathway - and then Geralt drags his tongue along Jaskier’s cock, from the base to the head. All his words disappear in an exhale, a shout released to the rafters.</p><p>“Geralt!”</p><p>“And you were good at it?” Geralt speaks the question against the softest part of Jaskier’s thigh.</p><p>So, this is how it’s going to go. Jaskier’s hands curl into fists in the bed sheets beside him. </p><p>“I was good at it, yes,” Jaskier bites his lip as Geralt sucks him down, swallowing all of his cock into the slick heat of his mouth. The sensation - good, so fucking good - makes bright spots of light appear at the edges of his vision. “You - fuck - you saw how good I was today, and if I’d had time to practise…”</p><p>The moan that vibrates at the back of Geralt’s throat sends sparks shooting up Jaskier’s spine. He can already feel that familiar tightening below his gut, pulled embarrassingly close beneath the weight of the witcher’s attention, beneath the expertise of his tongue and his glorious, irresistible mouth.</p><p>“Did you fight anyone before?” Geralt asks, pulling away slightly and giving Jaskier a few slow strokes with his fist. It’s maddening, and his whole body rocks up into the touch.</p><p>“Y- Yes, I did.” He remembers open fields at dawn, flowers stretching out wild in every direction; the slicing of metal in the early morning air. How strange that he should remember these things when his cock is about to touch the back of Geralt’s throat. </p><p>“Did you win?”</p><p>Jaskier has to compose his answer with the view of Geralt’s head bobbing up and down before him, the hot press of his tongue against his shaft. It’s difficult, and he can hear how his voice cracks and strains around the words.</p><p>“Oh, every time.” It’s not strictly true, Jaskier’s fight record was always remarkably average compared to the truer swordsmen in his class, but Geralt doesn’t need to know that right now. There’s no way he could recall exact numbers, especially when he sees what Geralt does next - reaching down to unbutton his own trousers and take himself in hand. </p><p>Geralt’s going to touch himself while his mouth is full of Jaskier’s cock. The thought is enough to pull Jaskier’s last bit of control right to shivering, aching breaking point. He groans, carding one hand desperately through the witcher’s hair.</p><p>“Geralt, if you keep this up... ” Any reasoning is silenced by Geralt, sinking so far down that the tip of his fine nose brushes up against Jaskier’s stomach, buried in the dark line of hair there. Jaskier can feel his cock twitching against the inside of Geralt’s cheek, and no doubt he can feel it too, although that doesn’t seem to make any difference to the unfaltering pace that he’s set for them both. He’s going to swallow whatever Jaskier has to give him. </p><p>And gods, if that isn’t all he needs to snap that final, quivering thread.</p><p>Jaskier comes so hard it’s like a punch to the gut, as if that tension has been building in him since he first took that ridiculous, slender foil into the ring with a witcher. He groans, head bowed, giving a low, entirely unpoetic grunt as he spills into Geralt’s mouth.</p><p>It doesn’t take long for Geralt to follow suit. With Jaskier’s softening cock still resting between his lips, he gives a stifled, half-bitten back moan and comes thickly over his fist. Some of his spend falls onto his thighs and stains the dark material a pearlescent silver. Geralt has worn far worse stained into the fabric of his britches. Maybe he won’t wash this out properly, wearing it like a bright medal for the whole world to see. What a thought.</p><p>The room falls quiet: their lewd sounds of sex reduced to low, rough panting, then soft breathing, then very little at all. Jaskier passes his hand over Geralt’s head where it’s resting against his thigh. </p><p>“I didn’t realise you’d find fencing quite so erotic,” Jaskier says, once he’s regained his ability to speak. From Geralt’s response - mostly silence, raising his head, getting to his feet and busying himself with moving the two beds together - it’s clear that he didn’t expect to find their bout quite so arousing either. </p><p>They clean themselves off as best they can without bathing; there’s no bath in this room anyway, but Jaskier thinks that perhaps tomorrow they can call for a tub and some hot water. Geralt picks his armour off the floor where he had so hastily discarded it before - the low, hard sound as he had thrown it off in his desire - and folds it, along with the rest of his clothes. Jaskier undresses too, choosing a loose nightshirt from one of his bags. Geralt always sleeps naked, which is terribly distracting, really, but right now Jaskier is almost, <i>almost</i> too spent to notice.</p><p>They blow out the remaining candles, flickering down in their holders, and climb beneath the sheets. Thin, scratchy cotton that Jaskier might have complained about once upon a time, but now he’s just grateful to press his own body up against Geralt’s and rest his head on his chest. </p><p>In the dark, he remembers something. It falls from him like rain. </p><p>“I didn’t really win every time,” he blurts. In the dark, his confession sounds very loud and a little stupid. “When I was younger, I mean. I didn’t really win every time.”</p><p>“I know that, Jaskier,” Geralt replies. His voice is calm and slow. Jaskier guesses that the fingers of sleep must be reaching for him already.</p><p>“How did you know?” Jaskier asks, although he’s not at all taken aback by the answer - Geralt seems to have access to a great deal of deep-seated, wild knowledge that Jaskier is not privy to. </p><p>Geralt’s arm curls over Jaskier’s shoulders, pulling him in closer. “No one can win every time.” </p><p><i>Well, that’s true enough,</i> Jaskier thinks. <i>Except you. Except you. You have to win every time.</i></p><p>Jaskier considers Geralt’s monsters - tearing teeth and bloody claws, shadows seeping right from the corners of nightmares and taking what they believe belongs to them. No consideration for who you might be, for who you might love. To lose is to die. </p><p>He doesn’t say anything. Geralt’s heartbeat is slow and even against his cheekbone.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>come and follow me on <a href="https://twitter.com/andpersephone">twitter.</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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